


mourning rites

by girlwondersteph



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), anders' coat should count as a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwondersteph/pseuds/girlwondersteph
Summary: Another thing that doesn’t make it into Varric’s Tale of the Champion: Hawke insists on holding a proper funeral, afterward.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	mourning rites

Another thing that doesn’t make it into Varric’s Tale of the Champion: Hawke insists on holding a proper funeral, afterward. 

“You’re bloody insane,” Anders says in disbelief when she confiscates the sad, sad remains from their bedroom floor. 

“Don’t be so insensitive,” Hawke sniffs. “Me and this coat have an intimate relationship you could never hope to understand, and I can’t just sit here and let you defile her.” 

“I share a bed with a lunatic,” Anders says wonderingly, like this is just occurring to him now after three years, and like it isn’t possibly the most ironic thing he’s ever said. Probably. With Anders, you kind of lose track after a while. 

“Yeah, that sounds like something you need to work out with yourself,” Hawke says, “literally.” 

“Hawke, I’m getting another coat.” 

She points an accusing finger at him. “Is that supposed to be a comfort? Are you going to replace _me_ so easily after _my_ tragic demise? After all these years, Anders? You wouldn’t even dignify me with a proper sendoff?” 

“I don’t know, are you an inanimate object?” Anders asks.

“Being an object is no excuse for objectification,” Hawke says. “Put _that_ in your manifesto.” 

He laughs, quick and startled. He always laughs that way now - like he’s surprised it can still happen, and he wants it to be over as soon as possible so he can get back to work. Hawke supposes his bore of a spirit passenger has made decent headway into convincing him that _laughter_ is unjust.

“I finished the manifesto a while back, but I am currently considering adding another section about my thoughts on ultimately harmless but still concerning temporary displays of insanity in one’s significant other,” he says, rubbing at his cheek; there’s a little dent there from where he fell asleep at his desk and spent half the night with his face pressed against the wood. It’s obnoxiously endearing.

“Temporary?” Hawke asks dubiously. She grins, saunters towards him. “Anders, when are you going to stop lying to yourself? We both know I’m like this all the time.” 

As it turns out, Anders is more of a schemer than she gives him credit for; while his left hand cradles her jaw, his right sneaks around to grab at the coat slung protectively over her shoulder. 

“False pretenses!” she yelps, jerking backwards and wriggling out of his grip. “Leave her alone!” 

“It’s not a _her_! Stop calling my coat a her!” 

“Are you implying it’s a _him?”_ Hawke asks, her eyebrows lifting at the thought. “How could I have gotten it so wrong?” 

“I’m _implying_ you’ve lost your mind, but I suspect there’s nothing for it, at this point,” Anders says. He sighs. “I was a little sentimental myself earlier, you know.” 

“Are you sure we can’t just - you know -” She wiggles her fingers in a poor attempt at imitating Anders’ healing mojo. To her chagrin, her fingertips spark, and she extinguishes them swiftly. She never did get the hang of using magic to fix things instead of break them, even after all this time around Anders. “Fix her up? With… magic? It’s worked for the past six years.” 

“There’s only so long magic can keep something going, Hawke,” Anders says. “Look at her. There’s nothing left in her.” He grimaces. “Oh, for Andraste’s sake. You’ve got me doing it now.” 

“Whatever,” says Hawke. “I’m keeping her at Merrill’s until I have the time to organize a nice funeral. If you’re replacing her, she shouldn’t have to see that.” 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Hey, Anders? When am I ever serious?”

\--

She’s being completely serious. 

She holds it in the nicest, least rat-infested corner of Lowtown she can find; she suspects such an event would not be wise or welcome in Hightown.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Isabela says from her place by the pyre. “For a coat.” 

“Hey, it was a good and faithful coat,” Varric says. “I’d like to think we’d do the same for Bianca if her time ever came. Pass the bottle, Rivani.” 

Sebastian is staring. He looks very shiny and very out of place, all done up in his armor. “Hawke, you told me this was a wake for a dear and beloved old friend.” 

Varric whistles. “You lied to the choir boy? That’s not the Chantry way.” 

“It wasn’t a lie, it was a misdirection,” Hawke explains patiently. The words feel thick on her tongue. “And I _had_ to misdirect him. If I told him it was a funeral for a coat, he wouldn’t bring the good booze.” 

“That would certainly be a tragedy,” Fenris says, sitting cross-legged beside her. He’s as cheerful as Fenris ever gets, which lets Hawke know he’s pleasantly buzzed. She’s glad to have him there with her. Despite their general differences in philosophy, she and Fenris have bonded over their mutual love of killing slavers and getting wine-drunk, which is a unique and bizarrely comforting manner of friendship. 

Plus, his presence meant she’d won a fair amount of coin from Varric, who’d been convinced he’d find the event entirely beneath him. 

“Fenris is actually pretty easy to entice,” Hawke had told him, matter-of-factly. “Promise him day-drinking, and he’s there. Danarius really should have tried to catch him by inviting him to a wine-tasting event.” 

“This much alcohol next to this much fire seems like a poor idea,” Aveline puts in, drawing Hawke away from her rather pleasant thoughts about profit. 

“It’s a metaphor,” Hawke says sagely. “For… something. Something tragic, no doubt.” 

From the other side of the alley, Merrill throws up violently. Hmm. Maybe _that_ ’s the tragedy.

“I take it all back,” Varric says. “This is entirely undignified. And not going in my stories.” 

“Oh, kitten,” Isabela says sadly. “Why is it _always_ the Dalish who go first?” 

Aveline uses the distraction to lean over to Hawke. “Anders not coming?” she asks quietly. Her eyes are very earnest, and it makes Hawke’s stomach turn. 

She _did_ invite him, but he probably forgot, or thought she was joking. One of the two. 

In truth, she’s actually _glad_ Anders isn’t here, which probably isn’t what Aveline’s expecting. She’s finding him harder and harder to be around these days; she looks at him, and she just feels so desperately helpless. Like she’s stuck behind a glass wall, watching while he slowly slips away. 

It reminds her of those last days in Lothering, with her father withdrawing from them bit by bit, and not a thing to be done about any of it. No one to fight or threaten or charm. Just the endless waiting, until he was gone completely. She’d almost felt relieved, afterward. At least protecting her family from templars and Darkspawn was something she could _do_.

Hawke raises one shoulder. “Anders is a busy guy. Revolutions to plot, and all. He doesn’t have much time for fun and merriment. Can’t imagine it, myself, but there you are.” 

Aveline considers her. “I’m probably going to regret saying this, but you know you can talk to me, right? About. Things. Whatever you need to.” 

“Of course, Aveline. There’s no one in Kirkwall whose shoulder I’d pick over yours for crying purposes. The others aren’t half so muscular, and I find that disappointing on a number of levels.”

Aveline doesn’t look surprised or upset; she was expecting the deflection. Well, of course she was. This is what Hawke does, what she’s always done. She jokes and she drinks and she throws ridiculous mock funerals because it’s easier to joke about Anders’ sartorial choices than consider what they might mean. 

Hawke wonders what it would be like, to just be able to talk about how you feel. Even _Fenris_ is capable of it in small bursts, for Andraste’s sake. 

But she can’t do it. She doesn’t know why. She just can’t.

Hawke reaches for a pair of the glasses she brought, tops them up with Sebastian’s (really very good, praise the Maker or whoever else he got it from) wine, and hands one to Aveline. 

Aveline looks troubled, but she takes it, and clinks it against Hawke’s at her indication. 

“To all the things not in Varric’s stories,” Hawke says wryly, the corner of her mouth turning up. And she drinks. 


End file.
